With The Midwife of Venice, Roberta Rich has joined the hordes. By "hordes," I mean authors producing historical fiction about parts of the world that are legendary, which is to say mostly imaginary to them. Strangely, most are about 16th-century Italy, one region or another. Also, they tend to feature resourceful female protagonists whose pluck and daring gets them through the most unlikely adventures. There is usually some form of prejudice; a helper in the form of another social outsider (a randy dwarf, a cloistered monk); and a great deal of travel (to Scotland, Morocco, Rome). That "legendariness" is not entirely a bad thing; it allows readers to *think* they are being transported through a place while still suspending disbelief as wholly improbable events take place there. When an author also so obviously wants his/her fiction to be taken seriously as a political statement or quasi-historical document, however, the lack of research or actual realism becomes a distraction rather than a boon.
And that is just one problem with Rich's novel. Rich has imagined a "Venice" in which the Jewish midwife Hannah, so downtrodden and impoverished by racial prejudice that she fears for her life if she steps outside the Ghetto or helps to birth a Gentile woman's baby (a task she – compassionately and rebelliously – nonetheless undertakes with surprising regularity), mysteriously becomes the target of a rich family's rage and vengeance. So much so that she has to disguise herself as a prostitute, guided by her "lapsed" sister, and then as a victim of the Black Death. Oh, and she also steals the rich family's baby, and manages to get stuck with him, so she and her (downtrodden and impoverished) husband Isaac can finally have the child they have dreamed of. Oh, and she escapes Venice on board a freight ship bound for Malta, where her husband has managed to win favor with nuns, a local eccentric artist woman, and a reluctantly admiring slave-owner who happens to be in love with the eccentric artist woman. Oh, and somewhere in there Hannah sneaks out of Venice and has a totally unnecessary subplot-adventure involving a suspicious ship's captain and a kind Muslim woman. Oh, and Hannah also rescues her husband from the clutches of the greedy nun and then the greedy slave-owner, and they bring the baby up and live happily ever after.
If you're reading this with eyes narrowed and the shadow of a "WTF" dancing across your peripheral vision, you're not alone. The novel is a full-tilt disappointment whose rave reviews on Amazon leave me baffled. It is full of racial depictions in all directions that turn characters into black-and-white cardboard cutouts worthy of a 19th-century melodrama (The Good Jewess, The Greedy Rabbi, the Scheming Count and so on), historical and geographical inaccuracies (I'm sorry, but if you are going to write a historical novel about downtrodden but plucky Jews in 16th-century Venice you need to know how to spell "G-I-U-D-E-C-C-A," not to mention the fact that the Jews did not, in fact, live in this area but in the Ghetto, which was in the Cannaregio), and wild radical leaps of logic that stymy even the most faithful of suspended disbelievers. How did Hannah, who cannot afford an orange, manage to get the silversmith from the Ghetto to manufacture her birthing tool, a set of soldered silver spoons (ostensibly the first forceps)? Why would the Rabbi, suspicious of anyone's authority beyond his own, even allow a pair of Gentile gentlemen into the Ghetto after hours, much less up into Hannah's private rooms – and then permit her to leave with them at midnight? Why would an independently wealthy (and oddly sexually liberated) artist fall in love with the emaciated but well-spoken Isaac? And, sigh, why do the non-Jews all have to be such caricatures of despicability and greed? This kind of representation may make for a cathartic page-turner, but it makes the novel feel mis-classified, as if it should be sold in the YA section. And that's *bad* YA, the kind that refuses to recognize the complexities of a world whose strands of black and white weave into a highly nuanced fabric of grey.
As for the page-turner thing? I reached page 241 in my copy and discovered that the next available page was 318. Perhaps the best assessment I can give of this book is to say that my reaction was one of relief and renewed enthusiasm : the end was near, and that was promising. What a shame to waste such an original idea for a novel – and such good intentions, too, to draw attention to the realities of women's daily lives in historically oppressed communities – on such claptrap.